


Trust Me, Trust Nobody

by enigma731



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, F/M, Natasha Romanov Joins SHIELD, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3351104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint can barely keep the shit-eating grin off his face, though he isn’t sure which he finds more entertaining--the image of the Black Widow herself shopping at Target, or the fact that she’s currently surrounded by hot pink monstrosities in the Valentine’s aisle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Me, Trust Nobody

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/gifts).



> Written for the be_compromised Valentine's promptathon.

Three months after bringing Natasha in, Clint can practically set his watch by her. 

He’d thought, at first, that she might resist the structure of S.H.I.E.L.D., that she’d be hard-pressed to shed the defiance he saw in the field when she’d very nearly managed to blow his head off. But here in New York, Natasha seems practically in hibernation, seems to thrive on orders and routine. Obedience gets her everywhere at S.H.I.E.L.D., of course, and Clint’s wondered more than once if that’s her true plan, to wait them all out and win them all over. 

Even that thought doesn’t quite convince him, though. Clint hasn’t cracked her code just yet, but he’s still fairly certain there’s a spark missing from her eyes, a ghost at her back as she moves through the daily grind--eat, sleep, train--even now that she has more privileges, has more options available to her. 

It’s a Friday night when he decides that enough is enough, that he can’t just walk by the gym on his way out and leave Natasha there to continue pummeling the bags until her muscles give out. The fact that it’s the night before Valentine’s day, and he’s found himself once again depressingly single has absolutely nothing to do with anything, he tells himself. 

Instead he slips in the door and watches Natasha move for a moment before clearing his throat, making absolutely certain she’s aware of his presence. Catching her off-guard while she’s already in defense mode is the last thing he wants.

“Hi,” he says cheerfully, when she turns around to look at him. He resists the urge to wave.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “You’re still here?”

“Not for long,” says Clint. “And neither are you.”

“And why would that be?” she asks.

“We have a mission,” he tells her, feigning seriousness.

Natasha continues to eye him suspiciously. “I’m not cleared for field work. You know that.”

“No,” he agrees, “but you are cleared to not spend every single minute working. Come on, Natasha. You’re in the land of cheeseburgers and Hallmark holidays. Live a little.”

He thinks she might choose now to resist, might give him the brush off in favor of continuing to train in pursuit of whatever mysterious agenda she’s following. He isn’t sure how he’ll feel about it if she does reject his offer, whether it will be a disappointment or a relief. 

She doesn’t give him the chance, though, just nods once and heads for the locker room to change.

* * *

Clint can barely keep the shit-eating grin off his face, though he isn’t sure which he finds more entertaining--the image of the Black Widow herself shopping at Target, or the fact that she’s currently surrounded by hot pink monstrosities in the Valentine’s aisle. 

She looks like any other shopper, in jeans and a dark t-shirt, impossibly innocuous. She’s even holding a basket, and contemplating the items on the shelf in front of her with a concentration that would convince any casual shopper that she’s nothing more than a procrastinating college student, out searching for Valentines at the last possible moment. Clint loses a good long moment wondering exactly how many times she’s managed to blend in like this, how many marks she’s killed with this ploy. 

“What exactly is ‘pink velvet’ supposed to taste like?” she asks, breaking her silence for the first time since they arrived. She snatches the package of cupcakes in question off of the shelf and holds it up, as if she might need evidence to convince him of the ludicrous name.

Clint shrugs. “Sweet?”

“I inferred that from the cupcake part,” she says dryly. “I can accept ‘velvet’ as a texture, but as a flavor it doesn’t make sense. And ‘pink’ is hardly any better.” Natasha sets the package in her basket, evidently deciding this conundrum requires further investigation.

“Really,” says Clint, studying her. “That’s your biggest problem with this scenario?” He gestures to their general area, which basically looks like something pink and disgustingly sentimental exploded all over it. He still isn’t sure how to read Natasha, though, isn’t sure how to interpret the way she’s silently scanning the scene with her eyes, whether she’s intrigued, or disgusted, or perhaps just too hard-wired to treat this outing as if they’re actually in the field.

If he’s honest with himself, he still can’t be sure how much of an independent person is left underneath all of the training, all of the mental conditioning, though that’s a question he’d rather not ponder. 

“No,” she answers, as she scoops up a box of candy hearts, contemplating the messages like they might be some novel form of encrypted communication. “You want me to say that I’m wondering why exactly you brought me here. Which I am. But I assume that if I wait, you’ll tell me, whereas none of these objects are about to explain their purpose to me.”

Clint sighs, still hopelessly unable to discern whether that’s actually her backward thought process or if she’s making fun of him. She _has_ a sense of humor; he’s seen enough to be sure of that, but he’s still learning the limits, still learning _her_.

“Tomorrow is Valentine’s day,” he tells her, as if that explains everything, though he’s absolutely certain she already knew that.

“Yes,” she agrees, pointing to the huge store banner above their heads, loudly proclaiming the same fact. “A holiday on which people express their romantic feelings and interests. So, presumably, you want to make someone aware of your feelings. But that doesn’t explain what I’m doing here with you. If you want to buy a Valentine gift for someone else, there isn’t much insight I can offer. If you’re looking to get _me_ into bed, then you should save yourself the time and ask directly.”

“Whoa,” Clint blurts, unable to help the way he chokes on the word, trying and failing to ward off the mental images that stirs up. “That’s not--It’s neither. There’s other options for Valentine’s day. Some people use it to express appreciation for their friends.”

Natasha meets his gaze and searches it, giving him the disconcerting sensation that she’s looking straight through him. “But that’s not what you’re here to do either. Tell me.”

“Well,” says Clint, feeling suddenly foolish for having brought her along, involved her at all, “it turns out that if there’s someone you want to prank--like your boss, hypothetically of course--discount pink glittery things make an excellent weapon.”

She blinks at him, though he can’t quite place her reaction, whether it’s surprise, or apprehension, or something more.

Clint sighs. “Look, you don’t have to do this with me if you don’t want to. I just thought--You should do something besides work. You should do something fun tonight. But I’m not going to drag you in if you think this will get you in more trouble than it’s worth.”

A slow, tiny smile curves her lips, and Clint shivers at the bolt of adrenaline that sends through him. “Why would you ever assume I’d be sloppy enough to get caught?”

* * *

“You’re right,” says Natasha, swallowing a bite of cupcake. “‘Sweet’ is a pretty accurate description.” She’s perched on the edge of his couch now, and Clint is trying very hard not to notice the way she’s licking traces of icing off her fingers, or the flush he feels rising as a result.

“What do you think?” asks Clint, holding up a handful of cards with pictures of kittens on them. “Sitwell?”

Natasha shakes her head, meticulously peeling the wrapper off another cupcake. “Coulson.”

Clint considers carefully, because prank Valentines are, after all, a very exact science. “I don’t hate that idea. But I want to know why you think it’s better than mine.”

Natasha shrugs. “It’s obvious. There’s nothing warm or fuzzy about Sitwell; he just does his job and too bad for anyone who doesn’t like his orders. But Coulson--Coulson wants to be everyone’s best friend, get them all wrapped around his little finger so that when he gives an order, you’ll believe he’s doing you a favor. Perfect cat metaphor.”

Clint blinks, taken aback in equal parts by her analysis and by the smile she’s currently directing at him, as if she’s just won a round in the ring.

“Coulson, then,” he agrees, and begins filling out the cards. He decides that a full pack should be enough to adequately flood Coulson’s desk.

“These for Sitwell,” says Natasha, showing him a set of cards with pathetically generic flowers on the front. “It won’t matter what they are, he’ll be annoyed by the principle of someone messing with his things.” She grabs a pen and as she writes her first message, Clint can’t help noticing the dramatic variation in her handwriting, the perfection of her cover work here.

Together they decide on a flood of puppies for Maria, and candy hearts followed by a singing and dancing telegram for Fury. It’s after midnight by the time they’re finished with all the preparations, and Clint’s hand is beginning to cramp from the most writing he’s done all year. There’s a pleasant warmth that’s fallen over the room, though, and the muscles in his sides are tired from laughing. 

“I should go,” Natasha says finally, though he thinks he can detect a hint of regret in her tone. She has a check-in with Fury in the morning, Clint knows, added insurance to the tracking bracelet she’s still wearing on her left wrist.

Clint nods, standing and offering a hand to help her up. She has her own share of the night’s work in an unlabeled shopping bag, ready to be placed in waiting for the morning. He has the fleeting thought again that this could all be a ploy, could be a design to win him over and take him out. He can’t force himself to seriously consider that, though, can’t deny the fact that he feels more comfortable tonight than he has with any other person since his marriage fell apart. 

He doesn’t notice the candy heart sitting on the edge of his coffee table until Natasha’s already out the door. Clint might dismiss it as a mistake, but she’s far too precise for that. He picks it up, holding the text to the light carefully. _Dream Team_ , it reads in sugary pink writing, and something twists dangerously inside of his chest.

* * *

Monday morning comes too soon, as always, and Clint is already counting the minutes until his first cup of coffee as he walks into work, and the hours until he gets to be back in bed after that. 

His only solace is that he’ll get to observe the aftermath of his Valentine’s schemes, and he’ll see Natasha in the gym soon for their daily sparring match. 

He’s preoccupied when he gets to the locker room, is too busy wondering if things will still be different for them, if he’ll get to see any hint of the person he spent Friday night with here. That’s why he’s on autopilot as he twists the combination lock, has to start over three times before he finally makes it all the way through without serious distraction. 

When the door swings open, all he can do is stop and stare for a very long moment. A thick layer of purple glitter is lying on top of all his things, probably saturating them as well, little avalanches spilling over onto the floor at the disruption of his breath. He takes a shirt out and attempts to shake it clean when he’s scraped together enough functional brain cells to get moving. No luck, though--stubborn pieces of glitter cling to the fabric, and Clint has the sinking realization that he’s going to be finding this stuff for years of his life to come.

He’s about to slam the locker shut again, leave this mess for a time when he’s had considerably more caffeine, but then he sees it--Another single candy heart, this one taped to the inside of the door.

_All Mine,_ it reads. Clint throws his head back and laughs.


End file.
